Autumn Scene

Upon the hills the giant trees

with color were ablaze,

Like smoke from smoldering embers 

rose the last October haze. 

All silent and magnificent

I fancied I could see

The Master Artist

touching up some solitary tree, 

But the glory of the landscape 

was a flash of crimson flame 

At the bottom of the picture 

where the painter signs his name.

Now I cannot speak the language 

of the men who paint and draw, 

And with technical precision 

can’t describe the scene I saw. 

All I know is that a picture 

was unrolled for me to see, 

And the highlights and the shadows 

seemed just what they ought to be.

But the gorgeous burst of color 

in the foreground caught my eye, 

And I knew it made the landscape, 

though I couldn’t say just why. 

It struck me as peculiar, 

where an earthly painter signs, 

The Master Artist splashed His name 

in tangled shrubs and vines. 

And as I stepped up closer 

I discovered and was glad 

He had given that touch of splendor 

to the poorest stuff He had. 

To the common things in summer 

which man scarcely sees at all 

He had given the place of honor 

and the glory of the fall. 

-- Edgar A. Guest